Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Friday, March 29, 2013

A Copse of Pines


198 / acknowledge first the silence within the silence— then the hushed, blurred tones kept within a copse of pines, huddling together for warmth —

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Ghost Irises


197 / cast off kimono: from the floor, patterns shift to a fractured vase, clusters of ghost irises and slivers of broken glass —

Monday, March 25, 2013

Twenty-four Views of Hesitation

Twenty Four

1/ —in the subtle manner of silence

2/ —the pause between breaths while motioning underwater

3/ Sudden awareness of the stillness of a room when turning to the last page of a book.

4/ or the murmur of cigarettes after nightfall, lifting their smoke against drawn curtains, coiling gently around lampshades.

5/ A patterned rush of moth wings in midflight against the backdoor porch lamp, flashing out against the Midwestern night.

6/ As the velvet scrape of a cat’s heavy tongue across her new born litter.

7/ —the silent pause between lightning and thunder

8/ his hand rising out a motion, following the curve of his lover’s shoulders, guided by the thin exposed spinal trail, the startled intake of breath as fingers lower—

9/ the interval between the ocean’s pulling away, coiling under, an intake of air

10/ before the exhale, of the bow’s release, a slight thrust of a clover bee into the nectar pod of its first exposed blossom,

11/ seeking closure after the final toll of a temple bell, at the height of an hour, the call to prayer,

12/ as the edge of the thin boundary between sleep and awareness

13/ or the hand trembling, hesitating over the blank page—

14/ the nervous pulse of an addict seeking the good vein— his needle ready, trembling—

15/ or the half seconds between past and present,

16/ the manner a narrow tongued owl hulks on a branch as a part of the full tree— until it leaps off into the night,no longer a fraction of the whole— a shadow in deeper shadows—

17/ for there exists a brief span of silence between prey and hunter, before the devouring

18/ perhaps as the needle arches to mend a dress hem

19/ —with the rhythm of falling into sleep, before a full immersion, there is a slight pause, a slight hesitation, then the plunge—

20/ the hesitancy of a stone skimming close the water’s surface— caught between rising and falling, acceptance and denial,

21/ or the brief moment the cusp of the descending moon leans a little closer to the horizon, mere seconds before contact

22/ a pause

23/ a whisper

24/ a gray curtain

Sunday, March 24, 2013

The Theme Becomes The Experience

As part of a creative writing experiment, utilizing social networking concepts like Twitter and the ever expanding blogosphere, I have generated a fragmentary poem titled “Twenty-Four Views of Hesitation,” a fractured display of a full multi-stanza work. Current readers know of my compulsion towards fractured verses, truncated stanzas, and mosaic images. Frequently the mention of found scraps of poetic phrases, and other like-minded concepts, appears in my meandering entries. This latest idea continues the various projects lingering in the streams of Internet channels.

Already on Twitter I have established regular postings of verse— @HaikuSentence — which consist of terse creative statements to fit the 140 character limit. These daily archives offer a continuous demand for poetic expression, providing an on-going challenge to find some aspect of the day and condense the events into brief lines of verse, and at the same time, follow some established expectations of the haiku form. On an individual basis, each entry stands alone, expressing a unique view of a given day.

Occasionally, some entries pick up the thread of previous line’s theme, and then shift the concepts to a slightly different direction. A reader therefore gains an abstracted sense of a given moment and then reflects on the supplied details, on a daily basis.


Twenty Four

What “Twenty-Four Views of Hesitation” proposes however is a slightly different reading experience by stalling out an extended, multi-lined poem over the course of a 24 hour period. Every hour on the hour a stanza will be posted with a common hashtag for cataloging, tagging purposes: #24HourPoem. As a result, the work itself transposes with its theme of hesitation, of expectation. The theme becomes the experience.

Individually, the stanzas reflect different moments of a collage-like action— or a fragmented perspective of awareness from an unidentified persona. Much like the process of unexpected, random thoughts, the reader does not perceive the persona’s involvement in the outside world. The reader is only brought into the impression of the outside world and the split second of acknowledgement of the persona’s interpretation of his environment.

Partly a technological-based performance piece, partly a delayed publication, the full experience is not hindered by an interrupted reading sequence. Breaks within the schedule and omissions are expected. Intervals of interruptions are planned. Just as the process of recollection is scattered and sometimes faulty, the poem itself is not an accurate recording.

Afterwards, once the cycle is completed, a full version of the twenty-four stanzas will be accessible through a posted link in Twitter for the curious. In this sense, the various fragments will be shown, melded into a whole poem, but with remaining hairline fractures. Ideally the message will be intact, regardless of the manner the form is displayed.

A Grief Descends


196 / condolence prayer caught in the back of the throat— knotted arms of trees without leaves— bare to seasons of extremes— a grief descends—

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Fireflies Fall


195 / there is a moment watching shadows on the road, or counting bridges downstream, an epiphany flickers, as fireflies fall—

Friday, March 22, 2013

Ghost Memories


burning

194 / from ghost memories, he hears his name called at the top of the stairwell, from perhaps his former wife— as he turns, the image burns—

Thursday, March 21, 2013

A Personal Hell


193 / in a dark garden, she rips open a pomegranate while no one watches— swallows six seeds— then falls in a personal hell

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

A Mosquito Hawk


192 / a mosquito hawk trapped between my hands— released back into the night— a second one slips inside the house, bobbing out of reach —

Monday, March 18, 2013

Hidden Memory

bed

191 / turning down the bed, peeling back layers— hidden memory exposed under Egyptian cotton and freshly laundered bed sheets —

Friday, March 15, 2013

Blue-Black Kimono


190 / half asleep, he dreams of the night slipping around in a close embrace— as a blue-black kimono with star patterns, spiraling—

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Fading Ghost Irises


189 / in his dreams he sees her pale kimono graying under dim moonlight with a repeating pattern of fading ghost irises —

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

his bruised fingers

repose

188 / in his sleep, the corpse knots his bruised fingers tightly, dreaming of his life and the intervals between the motioning hands of hours—

Monday, March 11, 2013

Cannas Bloom


187 / the baby falls asleep, reluctantly; I tread on remains of a water acorn shell in my bare feet— yellow cannas bloom outside—

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Last Night's Cicadas


186 / as he straightens his tie in a slanted mirror— last night’s cicadas’ vibrating chorus a mere memory— dimming

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Immeasurable Distance


185 / there is an immeasurable distance between a couple’s fingertips as they motion side by side down the city’s pavements

Friday, March 8, 2013

Mosaic of Syllables


184 / sunlight motions downstairs, fractures across— rather the hour itself as a splintering mosaic of syllables, broken words—

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Small Burning Effigies

Placing Brendan into his car seat this morning, he notices the waning crescent moon directly overhead. "It's broke," he says, pointing upwards. "Daddy, moon broke." His two year old voice carries a heavy tone of worry. I reply, "Well, maybe Granddad will fix it for you." He smiles. "Yes, Granddaddy fix moon.Yes." Everything becomes resolved. Problem erased.

183 / troops of sunflowers rise up in the back closet, then spread throughout the house— small burning effigies, casting light in all corners —

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

A Casual Wound


182 / the skin of your right hand cracks in winter hours— a casual wounding running across the knuckle of your nervous, blind fingers—

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Utility Lines


181 / on texas crossroads: gathering storm of swallows— circles overhead— the sun refuses to rise, shuffling under pampas grass

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Bells Without Tongues


180 / scant bells without tongues: their silence clamors close in the near distance— whispered prayers echo tightly, lingering within temples

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Moonless, Overcast Skies


179 / a heavy pollen count from cypress trees lingers over the suburbs— coughing-fits wake me at night to moonless, overcast skies

Friday, March 1, 2013

Drone of a Fly

fly

177 / the drone of a fly— sounding in an empty room— an unclear memory returns unexpectedly in the middle of the night